


New Inspiration

by Carmarthen



Category: Mozart! - Levay/Kunze
Genre: Dare, First Kiss, Hate Kissing, Kissing, M/M, Master/Servant, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 15:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2553116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mozart is sleep-deprived and maybe a little mad, and practically <i>daring</i> his boss Archbishop Colloredo to kiss him seems like a good idea at the time, at least for as long as it takes him to suggest it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [privatesnarker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/privatesnarker/gifts).



> Marin asked for "Mozart/Colloredo, Mozart is holding his latest work hostage in exchange for smooches & doesn't think he'll actually get them" and I think was expecting something a little sillier. They also [illustrated the kiss](http://pastelsandsparkle.tumblr.com/post/102954386733/privatesnarker-carmarthen-wrote-amazing-kiss) with beautiful art!
> 
> I…am not sure what this is, but let’s just pretend Colloredo hadn’t quite reached the exploding point with Mozart that we see in canon yet. Warnings for master/servant-ish stuff for those sensitive to that, although Mozart is the Worst Servant Ever.
> 
> I think I had Kocsis Dénes' Mozart more in mind than any of the others, and of course SzPSz's Colloredo. This has absolutely _nothing_ to do with the actual historical personages, especially poor historical Colloredo, whose reputation in the English-speaking world seems unfairly smeared beyond repair already.

Colloredo’s palace bore a striking resemblance to a prison, except Wolfgang had a sneaking suspicion that a prison would be less dull.

But despite the tedium, the bland food, the utter lack of proper inspiration, despite being confined to quarters for the last week—he had finished the new Mass commanded by great Colloredo, so the old prig had no reason to look at him like something he’d scraped off his royal shoe. Well, near as finished it, anyway.

Perhaps it was lack of sleep; perhaps it was the music still simmering in his blood, so close to madness—

"A kiss first, your Highness," he said, and smiled as Colloredo’s face began to turn a lovely pink hue, rapidly shading to the purple of rage. "To compensate me for my deprivation in your service—not that I am _complaining,_ of course, but an artist requires more inspiration than bare walls and bread and water—”

Colloredo’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, gripping Wolfgang’s arms without much gentleness. He might be old—well, older than Wolfgang—but he _was_ a tall fellow and seemed rather larger up close, and perhaps Wolfgang ought to have kept his mouth shut and bowed as Papa always insisted—

"' _Inspiration?_ ' You expect to find the Lord’s Mass between a whore’s legs, Mozart?” Colloredo asked, in a low, level voice quite different from his usual bark.

Wolfgang licked his lips; Colloredo’s gaze followed the motion, but not with any emotion Wolfgang had ever seen before on his face—nothing so simple as irritation or anger, or even amusement. “Ah—not as such…”

The hands on his biceps slid upwards, long fingers slipping under the edge of his collar, tracing over his neck and up into the short-cropped hair at the nape of his neck. He shivered, suddenly wishing he could take back the joke. It _had_ been a joke; certainly he’d never thought of stealing a kiss from sour old Colloredo, not when there were so many beautiful women in Salzburg eager for piano lessons from Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

And then Colloredo was kissing him, and it was nothing like kissing a woman, nothing like he could have expected if he had stopped for even a moment to think. Colloredo’s thumbs settled against his jaw, tilting his head firmly to a better angle; there was nothing chaste in the kiss, not after Wolfgang let his lips fall open in surprise. They had played chess once, when Colloredo was in a particularly good mood, and he kissed like he played, with a kind of ruthless, steady aggression.

It was a little like being conquered, Wolfgang thought dizzily as heat flushed his cheeks and he felt his prick stir against his thigh. And he ought not to like that at all, not in the slightest; he ought not to be suddenly wondering what else Colloredo hid under satin robes, behind his severe disapproving face and ascetic habits.

He had just begun to lift his hands—to do what, he could not have said—when Colloredo broke the kiss and stepped away, not a hair out of place, as smoothly composed as if nothing had happened.

"The Mass, Mozart."

This was more familiar ground, Colloredo’s hand held out with that arrogant expectation that anything he requested would be offered with an obsequious bow, because _he_ was Archbishop Hieronymus Joseph Franz de Paula Graf Colloredo von blah-dee-blah.

Wolfgang hated him.

"It’s…on my writing-desk," he said, "most of it."

A muscle twitched in Colloredo’s temple and he smiled, that wide humorless smile he seemed to reserve especially for Wolfgang. That was also familiar. “ _Most_ of it?”

"It’s finished! I simply haven’t written down the Angus Dei yet; even a genius must sleep sometimes, you know."

After a very long silence, in which Wolfgang nearly bit his tongue to keep still, Colloredo reached out and tapped him on the chest, rather hard; he tried his best not to flinch. “Genius or no, you owe me a great deal, Mozart; someday I will collect. Tomorrow, then, and no more games.”

If there was relief in Wolfgang's bow—or sarcasm—Colloredo could not see it as he swept out of the room.

Well, it was not as if Wolfgang had better plans for his evening in this damned place than to write out an Angus Dei, even if it turned out that the stick up the Archbishop’s arse might not be as firmly lodged as he’d believed.

Even he knew a bad idea, sometimes, no matter how well it might kiss.


End file.
